Broken
by fireheartmatilda
Summary: Feyre Acheron is High Lady of the Night Court, but there is only so much even she can withstand. Feysand and the Inner Circle


There was silence where screams had echoed through the marble hall for the past few hours. Feyre had tried so hard, in the beginning, at least, to take the blows and the scars without giving Iathne the satisfaction of seeing her pain and terror, but after a week, or it could have been longer, it felt longer, she didn't see the point anymore, and so today, when the whip had torn through her still healing scars from yesterday, or when Iathne caressed her skin with that blade, leaving blood slowly but steadily trickling to the floor, she had given in. How could she not, when it felt like every piece of security she had earned back after the War in the past few months had been stripped away, and in had flooded the pure, undiluted terror and fear and pain? So many times, she had reached down into her well of power, but Iathne must've picked up a few tricks from the Hybern twins, leaving her magic useless, and the other arsenal at her disposal had been deemed inaccessible the moment she felt the shackles around her wrists and ankles. It had been days of nonstop torture and even the relief of unconsciousness had been replaced with searing pain begging her to reopen her eyes, burning her until she obeyed.

Now, sagging with exhaustion and the only thing holding her up being the chains, Feyre barely had the energy to listen to whatever conversation was occurring in the other room, into which Iathne had retreated moments before after a knock on a door. Feyre simply let her eyes flutter close, feeling sleep wash down upon her, and trying to forget everything. It wasn't until hands touched her own that she flinched awake, preparing herself for Iathne's vicious onslaught. As her vision refocussed, however, it was not at knife or a slap that greeted her, but three blurry, and yet familiar figures, all fiddling with her shackles. She let out a choked noise, seeing them. Morrigan, Azriel and Cassian. They had come, they had come to help her.

"You're here, you're here." She couldn't think of anything else to say, but when the three faces shot up to meet hers and she saw the emotion brimming within them, she knew that she didn't have to say anything else. As the shackles released, Feyre slumped forwards, but arms were there, and she was hoisted up into warm arms. A scarred hand held hers, so gentle, so unlike the treatment she had received in the last few days. Still, even as her eyelids threatened to close once more, she knew something was wrong, missing. Lifting her head, and meeting Mor's eyes, she frowned.

"Rhys?"

Her question went unanswered, as she was hauled to the back of the hall, at which Azriel opened a door that led to the outside. She was so nearly out, so nearly free when… The doors slammed open, a high pitched screech coming from the other end of the corridor. Ianthe lunged across the hall, as though she could reach them, but a dark figure winnowed in front of her, his Illyrian blades already out. Feyre's breath caught at the sight of him, and she felt her body move, needing to be near him, to fight with him, to have him away from her. As though sensing it, Azriel stepped in front of Feyre, placing a hand on her face and staring into her eyes.

"Feyre, we have to go. He'll be alright, but we have to get out of here. There's a plan." As though summoned by the words, Nesta and Elain appeared through the door that Az had just opened, their own swords bloody, and whispering something to Mor about the disabled guards around the fortress. Feyre barely heard them, she barely heard any on it. She needed to get to them.

Diving from Cassian's strong grip, with newfound strength and adrenaline, ignoring every place she was bleeding or every part of her screaming in pain, Feyre fought her way through her family as she yelled. Hands seemed to clasp her, new ones appearing everytime she shook the others off, but she could do this. Scrambling desperately away from them, and grabbing the large sword Nesta had been holding, she sprinted. Not to where Rhysand stood, watching her with horror and love and sorrow. Instead, she ran for the woman kneeling before him, where his sword rested at her throat, and she shoved her mate aside, pulling her own sword up and plunging it through Iathne's chest again and again. Every time the sword drove through Iathne's heart, Feyre saw another painful memory, another trust betrayed. She screamed, fire burning inside her whilst her own magic remained smothered. Because of her, this woman. And now she would die. Feyre dropped to the floor, still sobbing as she drove the knife into Iathne's chest again, again. She couldn't stop, she wanted to feel it, the relief that this was over, even as she looked at Iathne's bleeding body for truth. She was dead, she was dead. Clinging to these words, her screams broken up by choked sobs, the sword clattered to the floor and she brought her bloodied hands to her face, covering her mouth in horror. What had she become? Turning slowly, feeling the tears running down her face, Feyre's hands fell to the floor as she took in the expressions of her family, looking on at the broken woman before them. That was what she was now. Broken.

She couldn't think, couldn't breathe, sitting in the spilt blood of a woman she had hated so much, who had done unspeakable things to her. Tears no longer ran down her face, the woman who had put them there now lying dead beneath her, but she couldn't look at them, her family, she couldn't look at any of them, after what she had just done. The room was silent for a moment, and she felt a figure crouch beside where she was kneeling, the shift she had been wearing, now coated with blood. So much blood.

"Feyre," the voice was so quiet, so concerned. She didn't deserve that, she was a monster. It spoke again, and she knew that voice, closed her eyes trying to shut it out. "Feyre." A finger touched her cheek, gently, as though to brush away the tears that didn't fall. She didn't flinch from the touch, she didn't have the energy to. Clasping her bloodied fingers in her lap, she remained staring to the ground.

"What have I done?" The fingers paused on her cheek, before moving under her chin and gently pulling her face so she was looking up at him. His violet eyes were so full of emotions but she could barely register them. "What have I done?" She was shaking, overwhelmed by the emptiness inside her, but the lack of regret or sorrow for the ending of that life. All that remained was pure hatred, for everything that had bene done to her. Her mate's hand reached for hers, and as they winnowed away, she urged to snatch her hand from his; she should not have this blood on his hands.

When they were once more in Velaris, in the main room of the town house that was Feyre's home, she was still crouched, Rhys beside her, and she was vaguely aware of the others winnowing in behind them, as she shuddered away from his touch. Obliging, Rhys moved a step away, though his gaze was heavy on her. Feyre didn't care, she didn't care about anything, and just held herself tighter, as though she could keep herself from falling apart. Still no-one spoke, and she couldn't help but wish they'd all leave. Maybe they had. She didn't bother to turn around and check. Her eyes remained on her bloody hands, and the stained, once white, fabric that barely covered her. The dress had first reminded her of the shifts she had been forced to wear under the mountain, and all the games that had been played under there, but over time, she had realised this was much, much worse. The white silk was thin and mostly see through, and covered very little of her, cutting off halfway down her thighs, and leaving her legs exposed. The shift was loose, and Feyre knew it left much of her back exposed. It wasn't until the fabric slipped a little, and left her shoulder and part of her back exposed, though, that she heard the short gasp from behind them, and what sounded like a sob. She made no attempt to pull the shoulder of the dress back up, instead staring down at the scars and burns that had been exposed, her eyes vacant. She stayed that way a good time, trying to remember when her memories were not tinted with torture and pain, and it was not until a scarred hand reached out to her that her focus strayed. She didn't bother looking up at the shadowsinger, instead staring intently at the scars that were so like hers and the shackle marks that had been engraved into his skin, as they now were hers. Nodding, almost incomprehensibly, she felt those strong scarred arms wrap around her and pull her up. Barely conscious, and everything catching up with her, Feyre could only make out muffled voices, and a whispered promise.

"Sleep now, Feyre darling, and now that you are safe." She didn't know if her mate's voce was real or in her head, but it stayed with her as she slipped away.


End file.
